Remember that night? The soft glow of the tv reflecting blue on the walls Our tongues dancing to the music That played in the background I had you pinned the wrong way round on the bed Your head between my arms Every part of us touching I could feel the heat on your skin The melody of your heartbeat You tasted like the cherry sucker I gave you An hour before Oh, how I used to drown in your melancholy
Yet now all I feel is water Little drops from the shower While I stare at what never was The music of your breathing still plays in my ears When the night is quiet enough Sometimes I swear I still feel your skin But the moment passes and I’m left with this cold sort of feeling An empty swell in my chest A tingle behind my eyes You are nothing but dull memories now Nothing but a thought of remembrance
I wish I could have kissed you the moment I saw you in real life for the first time; something like running into your arms and letting the world turn into static, only focusing on you. Only you.
But that would have been too dramatic. Maybe you'd get shy all of a sudden or think I am too forward. So I just held your hand— warm like a heavy blanket and evidently bigger than mine. Enveloping my hand in the most comfortable of ways, like some missing puzzle piece that was bound to be together no matter what.
That would have appeased me don't you think?
No. Not really. I have nothing to say. I still want to kiss you.
The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.
Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.
One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.
Alternatively titled, "Girl from the suburbs tries to write about a farmgirl from a painting."
Inspired by "The Fruit Pickers Under the Mango Tree" by Fernando Amorsolo.
I’ve never made out with anyone under a tree. I might be missing out, dude.
"Hello, my love," her voice sang "Tell me everything, how've you been?" She smiles and room brightens up I'm staring and staring, cannot stop Her emerald eyes are full of glee While she looks and looks and looks at me We close the distance, full of bliss Exchange a passionate prolonged kiss We hug and hold the other tight And whisper whispers through the night "I can't believe that you are mine" A small tear glistens in my eye And so we stand there, in warm embrace Whilst romantic music softly plays
A perfect ending to every night A beautiful vision by my future sight